


Tell Me What's Wrong With My Brain ('Cause I Seem To Have Lost It)

by sherlocking



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocking/pseuds/sherlocking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A revelation, whoo! Written for the prompt of Holmes and Watson being nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me What's Wrong With My Brain ('Cause I Seem To Have Lost It)

**Author's Note:**

> Ok hi so this is for featherfish on lj. When I started this, my brain was desperately trying to make it angsty, but I think I succeeded in getting away from that pretty quickly, haha. Also the title is way too pretentious for this, but I basically just took a relevant song lyric because I had no other ideas. OKAY I'll shut up now.

Despite everything, Watson always comes back to him. Despite explosions, despite falls from great heights, despite arguments and strange noises in the middle of the night, despite death threats and poisons, despite women that left saying it was too much - he always comes back.

He berates himself on the frequent walks to 221B, mentally kicking himself for giving in again. He gets bogged down in the smog of London, the choking fumes of some industrial age that he barely pays attention to anymore. 

Truth be told, 221B is the only place that ever makes him feel something.

It is an icy day in the heart of winter when Watson crosses the threshold to the old lodgings once again; after an arduous journey made worse by a stiff leg, a sharp sleet and the nagging thoughts in the back of his brain. He's usually skilled at suppressing them, but now and again they worm their way to the forefront of his mind:  _don't go back there, what can he possibly give you? what do you even gain from these visits?_

Suppressing these thoughts means he doesn't have to deal with them. He's not even sure where this persistent voice came from anymore; all he knows is that it makes walking towards those seventeen steps harder than it should be.

Once he gets inside, however, everything changes. The mere act of stepping through the door fills him with a feeling of immense relief- a feeling of being home. He's had other homes besides this, of course- yet for him, they do not hold memories as powerful, or as strong a sense of security. The conflict drains away to be replaced by a sense of normalcy, and Watson cannot remember why coming here made him feel so doubtful.

Up seventeen steps and he finds himself in a room clouded in smoke. 

"Holmes, it really wouldn't kill you to open a window now and again." Watson steps inside the room and breathes in the smoke from Holmes' tobacco, listens to the crackle of the fireplace, scans the room for any signs of destruction. The regular clutter tells him nothing.

"Dear Watson, in case you hadn't noticed, the weather is slightly on the inclement side. I shall open a window when I can guarantee not receiving a blast of sleet to the face, thank you very much." The voice comes from the middle of the room, though it's difficult to tell exactly where in the smoke.

"All the same, a little ventilation wouldn't go astray." Watson sighs and sits down, deciding not to pursue the discussion further. He is used to this environment, after all.

"How is the case going, then?" he asks. Considering the smokey room, whatever case Holmes has on the mind right now must be fairly significant. He can't help but feel a bit irked that he hadn't been informed of said investigation by Holmes himself- if he has to ask about it, then Holmes mustn't want him involved.

"I have none," was the short reply. Watson balks.

"But Holmes..." he sighs before continuing; apparently his deductive skills still need work. "Your room is in its normal state of disarray! No needles in sight... the smoke... I assumed you had a three pipe problem!"

"How  _many_  times must I tell you that to assume is the worst possible thing to do, my dear man?" Comes the reply. Watson hears a shift of papers, and Holmes' figure emerges from the smoke. "That said, I do have a problem of sorts that I thought you might be able to help me with."

"You want my help? I'm always happy to oblige, you know."

"Excellent." Holmes is a completely clear image now, pacing around the room with an intent fervour that is somewhat different to his usual state of intensity when pursuing a case.

"I have recently realised something about myself, Watson, and that is that I have become entangled in the grotesque sort of emotional folly that I usually look down upon others for, if you understand my meaning."

"That was a tad verbose for my liking, Holmes. Kindly elaborate." Watson frowns. He's fairly sure he understands exactly where this is headed, though Holmes seems desperate to be as vague as possible.

Holmes runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I mean..." he sighs, "I mean that I have fallen foul of romance, dear man!" He sits down at this point, looking fairly anguished.

"But Holmes, this is marvellous!" Watson cries. "Who is the lady? I've always thought that girl Margaret from down the road had a manner that was worthy of you, is it her-"

"Watson, I think you misunderstand me. Though to be fair, I don't quite understand this myself - I - it's  _you_ , Watson. Dear god, man-  _you_  are better than any drug."

Watson scoffs, panicked. "What, you're trying to court me now? I should have known you'd be terrible at it. Besides, if I'm so much better than a drug, why is it I've found you with the needle countless times before?"

Holmes stands up again, paces again, runs his hand through his hair again. "To be quite honest, it was my way of dealing with it. Without cases, my mind becomes fixed on you, and - the solution calmed me down. You must understand that I  _never_  meant for this to happen. I rather thought it impossible."

It's Watson's turn to sigh now. He stands up, walks over to Holmes and grabs his arms to stop his constant movement. "Holmes. Calm down. It's fine."

"How can this  _possibly_  be fine, my good man, how could I have been so foolish as to let myself feel-"

Watson places a finger to Holmes' lips. "Stop. It's fine, I promise you." He suddenly beams widely. "Do you know what this means?"

Holmes frowns. "What?"

"I, John Hamish Watson, successfully outsmarted you. I've escaped your suspicions and your deductions this whole time!"

"What the devil are you on about-"

"Sherlock Holmes, you idiot, it's fine. Firstly, if no one finds out then no one gets hurt, secondly, I love you, you arrogant git, and thirdly,  _you never even realised_ , you self-absorbed lunatic." 

Holmes blinks, for once lost for words, and Watson stretches up to kiss him. 

"There. Now for the love of god, find yourself a case."


End file.
